


I am this great, unstable mass of blood and foam

by HistoriaGloria



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: 18 month timeskip, 5+1 Things, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Art, M/M, Misuse of pathfinder mechanics for fun and plot, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 06:28:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23846728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HistoriaGloria/pseuds/HistoriaGloria
Summary: 'He steps forward, awkward and uncomfortable, but there. He places his hand on Oscar’s shoulder and lets the man turn his body into Zolf’s chest.And Wilde weeps.It’s like a dam has broken, his tears coming heavy and fast, the sobs tearing themselves from his chest as he clings to Zolf’s shirt with trembling fingertips.'Five times Zolf sees Oscar cry and one time that is reversed.
Relationships: Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde
Comments: 32
Kudos: 190





	I am this great, unstable mass of blood and foam

**Author's Note:**

  * For [areyouokaypanda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/areyouokaypanda/gifts).



> Okay, hey everyone!  
> So, the absolutely incredible [areyouokaypanda](https://areyouokaypanda.tumblr.com/) drew this Zolf and Oscar [art](https://areyouokaypanda.tumblr.com/post/616166436097933312/everyones-drawing-hugs-i-wanted-to-draw-hugs) and I was struck with a writing bug, so here.   
> I hope you all like it!
> 
> Title is from Autoclave by the Mountain Goats:  
> 'I am this great, unstable mass of blood and foam  
> And no one in her right mind  
> Would make my home their home.  
> My heart's an autoclave.'

  1. **_Grief_**



Zolf is the only one there the first time Oscar breaks down.

It’s about a month after Zolf rejoined him; Barnes and Carter are out on mission and it’s just the two of them. It’s late, 2 or 3 in the morning and Zolf has jolted back to consciousness, panicked and afraid. Nightmares are so common these days, so usual for all of them that it isn’t uncommon that someone is awake in their little inn in Japan at some ungodly hour.

Slow inhale. Slow exhale.

Zolf's hands are still shaking but he stumbles out of his little room and on to the small porch that the inn has.

It’s raining. It's always raining here. But honestly, he rather likes the relaxing drum on the roof.

It's not as calming as hoped tonight, his mind too full of dark cave systems and desperately reaching, _reaching_ , **_reaching_** for Sasha and Hamid, only for them to fall into inky darkness. Or maybe its him that's falling.

Zolf shakes his head, once, twice and the nightmare fades.

Slow inhale. Slow exhale. He's okay. This is fine. This is usual. Has been ever since he left them in Prague, even before he knew they weren’t coming back.

It's on the breath out that he hears it. The sound is cut off, muffled as soon as it is made but Zolf heard. Zolf knows.

He turns and heads back inside pausing at the closest door, Wilde's door. The sound comes again, muffled and faint as though the bard has buried his face in cloth, but the sound is definitely a sob. Zolf knocks, but opens the door before Wilde has a time to deny him entry. The bard is sat up right at his desk, clearly having jolted into the position when Zolf knocked.

“Zolf.” Oscar says and it is flat, almost desperately so, as though revealing any emotions will shatter him completely. But there are still tears running down his cheeks. He’s still dressed, despite the late hour and the papers strewn across the desk appear to imply that he has been working all this time. Zolf frowns.

“What’s up?” he mutters, gruff as he tries to hide his own difficult night.

“Nothing. I didn’t mean to wake you.” His voice still has that slightly odd quality, stripped completely of all tonality. Zolf’s scowl deepens.

“Don’t lie to my face, Wilde. You haven’t slept, you’ve been working this entire time and now you’re crying and you won’t tell me why.” Oscar’s half-heartedly hand goes up to brush the tears away without breaking eye contact with Zolf. The sailor in question raises one bushy eyebrow and folds his arms.

“I…” Wilde starts weakly and he just waves a half-hearted hand at the latest missive open on his desk. Zolf steps over and glances it over. It appears to be from a Saira al-Tahan briefly discussing the use of the al-Tahan household as a Harlequin base.

“I miss Hamid.” It is barely a whisper, barely a statement. “I miss them all.” Zolf halts, his shoulders dropping suddenly. He misses rest of the group, of course he does, especially after Oscar has made it very clear that they are likely dead. But he hadn’t really considered that _of course_ Wilde misses them. And blames himself for losing them. He steps forward, awkward and uncomfortable, but there. He places his hand on Oscar’s shoulder and lets the man turn his body into Zolf’s chest.

And Wilde weeps.

It’s like a dam has broken, his tears coming heavy and fast, the sobs tearing themselves from his chest as he clings to Zolf’s shirt with trembling fingertips. Zolf doesn’t know how to interact, how to comfort him, so he just stays still, hand on Wilde’s shoulder, waiting out the waves of grief with him.

* * *

  1. **_Injured_**



“Ngk, _fuck_ ,” Wilde hisses and then hums a dramatic little tune under his breath and the mook drops, blood dripping from his ears. Zolf drives his flaming glaive through another’s throat, scowling. The ambush took them by surprise, separated them from the others in their small party. They are not quite surrounded, but there are certainly enough to keep both Wilde and Zolf busy. Zolf is somewhat unused to fighting with glaive. It’s a new weapon and that paired with the new legs made from the Simulacrum technology can unbalance him slightly.

Luckily, Wilde is very good. Zolf had forgotten just how good the bard was. The way he slings spells with a yelled line of poetry, or sings out in a language that Zolf thinks is Irish Gaelic, is so very deadly and when that isn’t enough, he has an adamantine dagger. He doesn’t use the dagger with the finesse that Sasha had but Wilde clearly knows enough to drive it hard and viciously into the throat of many a mook to get them to go down.

Around Zolf, everything is quiet. He grunts, thrusting his glaive through the chest of the last man rushing at him and turns back around.

“Wilde?” The bard has been far too quiet.

Oscar’s stood a few feet away, hand is pressed to his left side, holding in the blade which is lodged under his ribcage and his eyes are wet with unshed tears.

Before Zolf can even move in his direction, Wilde’s knees turn to jelly and he falls straight forward into the sandy beach.

“Wilde!” He is there in seconds, rolling the lanky human over as Oscar gasps for air, tears dripping slowly down on to the sand.

“Nghhkk,” is all the reply he gets in response and Zolf mutters a few choice curses in Dwarvish. Visceral enough that he knows if Feyrn had ever heard him say them he would have gotten a clip around the ear.

“Stay still, gotta get the knife out before I heal you,” Zolf hisses, moving Wilde’s hands away from where he is desperately clutching at the blade.

“Think, nghk, poison, ahah, oww,” Oscar manages to spit out and there is blood on his lips. Zolf replies with another couple of choice dwarvish curses, concerning where the mook’s head might go in relation to the rest of his body.

“Okay, okay, stay still. This is going to hurt.” The bard nods, looking straight up at the sky. “On three,” Zolf mutters and Wilde makes a sound in the back of his throat like someone has killed his cat.

“Three.” Zolf pulls hard on the knife, dragging the serrated blade out of Wilde’s chest with a sickening tear, accompanied by a howl from the bard. Around them both, glass is immediately formed from the sand in short, violent spikes at the outburst. Wilde starts to whimper, tears pouring now as the blood gushes from his side. Muttering a quick prayer to whatever out there is helping him, Zolf presses his hands over the wound and focuses. It takes a moment, but the healing helps, knitting the wound closed as Wilde gasps out desperate breaths.

“There we go,” Zolf slumps back on his heels as the bard continues to breathe like a landed fish, partly sobbing, partly trembling. “Let’s get you back to the inn, you need to rest. Magical healing will only go so far.”

“My knight with shining legs,” Oscar croaks and Zolf rolls his eyes, but it’s fond, gentle.

“Yeah, yeah, come on, Wilde.” The cleric stands and helps the bard back to his feet so that they can limp back to their base together.

* * *

  1. **_Betrayal_**



Zolf only sees the aftermath but it’s enough.

He had been the one left behind this time, to hold the fort, whilst Carter, Barnes and Wilde went to go check out a contact. Wilde had gone with because the contact had been his, from before, from his days as a meritocratic offer.

They were meant to be gone four days, all going well, and this contact was meant to come back with them into quarantine.

They were barely gone two days.

Barnes is partially carrying Oscar when they return and Zolf curses as he stomps out of the inn.

“What happened?!”

“They betrayed us,” hisses Barnes and for a split second Zolf thinks he means Carter, but then the thief comes running in after them both. Wilde stirs and Zolf’s eyes widen because half his face is red with blood and he’s clearly woozy. “Contact was Infected. Went for Wilde and managed to get a good cut in. Carter and I have done what we can, but we’re not medics. Rushed him back to you.”

“You’re all safe?” Zolf asks warily and Barnes nods.

“Not left each others’ sight, no contact with the Infected. Carter took them down with a good throw.” Zolf nods and rushes forward, touching his fingers to Wilde’s head, face, jaw.

“Get him inside. This is bad and looks like its going to leave a scar.” Barnes nods, struggling to hold up the lanky limbs of the bard, but with Zolf’s help they get him to a bed.

Three healing spells, a 3 hour nap and a short argument with Carter and Barnes later and Wilde is up and about again.

“Have to thank you, for saving my life, again,” Oscar says quietly, stood in the door frame to Zolf’s room. He looks up from polishing his glaive (completely unnecessary, but it gives him something to do with his hands).

“S’my job,” he grunts, shrugging. “I’m the cleric.”

“Still, it is appreciated.”

Zolf was right. The cut was deep enough to scar. It runs from the corner of Oscar’s mouth up his cheek in a red angry mark and the cleric knows that all the magical healing in the world can’t fix that. It will mar his face forever more.

“You alright?” Zolf asks. He’s been trying to do better at the whole talking-about-your-emotions thing, in spite of how awkward it is. Oscar strides across the room, his posture confident and poised. An act. Zolf has known him long enough to be able to tell when the bard is acting. It’s a little thing that he prides himself on, considering how good Wilde is at deceiving people.

He stops, stood in front of the mirror which Zolf pays little to no mind to and ghosts his fingertips over his scar.

“It’s ugly,” he says quietly. Zolf almost rolls his eyes and dismisses him for petty, vain behaviour when he notices that Oscar is crying. It’s silent, controlled in a way that the previous times that Zolf has seen Wilde cry hasn’t been at all.

“Wilde?” he says weakly as the bard’s shoulders slump forward.

“It’s ugly and I can’t feel that part of my face anymore and it destroys my smile. I’m a bard for crying out loud. I’m meant to be a pretty face!” He is getting more and more worked up, the tears coming more quickly as he stares at the cut.

“Wilde!” Zolf says, standing abruptly and crossing the room over to the other man. “Look at me.” Slowly, Oscar turns to him, his bottom lip still trembling, though he looks defiant and frustrated.

“What? Are you going to tell me I’m still beautiful? Because it’s a lie,” Wilde replies, his voice all razor-sharp. Zolf shuffles awkwardly on the spot.

“Honestly, Wilde, I was going to say that it doesn’t matter about the scar because you’re way more than a pretty face,” he says stubbornly. That throws the bard. “Yeah, it’s a bad scar. Yeah, you’re going to have some loss of facial control. But that’s not really the issue here, is it?”

Wilde pauses for a long moment and then reaches up to the scar for a brief second.

“I nearly died. I trusted… I trusted for once in my life and it nearly cost me that. Should have just followed protocol, not interacted until they had been quarantined, should have…”

“Oscar,” Zolf doesn’t cut in, but his tone leaves no room for Oscar’s continued self-deprecation. “You can’t blame yourself for something that was done to you. And you shouldn’t punish yourself for an honest mistake. Especially not because you wanted to trust someone.”

“Trust gets you killed out here,” Wilde says, but his voice isn’t as sharp as it was before. It’s faint, almost hopeful.

“Then, trust me? At least until I’m not with you.” Wilde blinks at that and manages a nod, wiping his eyes quickly.

“Alright,” he mutters. Zolf places one hand on Oscar’s elbow and gives a little sigh.

“And, for the record, you’re very handsome, scar or not.” The slight huff of laughter and tinge of red in Oscar’s cheeks was worth it.

* * *

  1. **_Feeblemind_**



It’s unusual that they come across spell casters of such high level. But honestly, this one has been causing some issues in a small village south of the one they are in. A wizard, driven mad long ago, but only now becoming an issue as he has decided to stop hiding in his tower and actually cause trouble. It’s not something that Wilde would usually be involved in, but Carter is in quarantine after a recent solo mission and this is too pressing to ignore.

Zolf hates it. The mage is too powerful for just the three of them, but they really don’t have any reinforcements coming. Oscar is doing an excellent job of keeping the wizard distracted with his voice, singing out his spells, which has allowed Barnes to get some good hits in and Zolf has called on his divine power so much that he can feel his skin itching with the sheer connection.

But Oscar is tiring and the wizard is growing wary. Another few good hits; they just need to hold out for another few hits.

Then, the wizard stops in his battle with Wilde, opening himself up for attack. Barnes and Zolf lunge at the same time, as the wizard throws a curse at the bard, dropping him to his knees. Barnes’s blade goes straight through the wizard’s throat and he chokes on his own blood before going limp.

“Good riddance,” Barnes mutters. “You alright there, Wilde?”

Wilde hasn’t moved, on his hands and knees on the floor, his forearms trembling.

“Wilde?” Zolf grunts. “Oscar!” At the shout, he moves, scrambling back away from Zolf and Barnes, his eyes wide and fearful, hands defensively in front of his face.

Zolf curses quietly. Something has gone wrong. Oscar whimpers, a long drawn out sound in the back of his throat as he draws himself up into a ball. Periodically, he opens his mouth, trying to speak but unable to.

“Did he silence him somehow?” Barnes asks as Zolf slowly tries to approach, only for Wilde to flinch away.

“No, this is something more than that. Look, he’s scared.” He drops his glaive and tries again. This time, the bard lets him, still making the panicked whining sound. There are tears in his eyes and his face is so open, emotions so clear…

It clicks in Zolf’s brain. He had only heard of the spell in passing and had never seen it in action but everything matches.

“I know what’s wrong,” he calls back to Barnes, who is cleaning the blood from his blade.

“Oh yeah?”

“Feeblemind. It’s a nasty spell, reduces you to basically a child-like or animalistic state,” Zolf explains and as he does so, Wilde scuttles away from him, skittish. “Hey, hey Oscar, it’s okay, come on.”

“Can you fix it?” Barnes mutters, looking at the way that their boss hunches in on himself, sniffling.

“Not until tomorrow, I’m tapped,” Zolf grunts in return, before trying again with the calmer voice for Wilde. “It’s okay. Come here, you’re safe with us, Oscar.” Wilde doesn’t flinch when Zolf reaches for him, quite the opposite. He surges forward, pressing his face against Zolf’s chest directly over his heart, fingers grasping at the edge of Zolf’s breastplate.

“How can we help?” Barnes say, his voice careful and cautious. Neither of them is the right person for this, far too awkward and stoic to deal with a Wilde who clearly is very touch-starved and afraid.

“Try and keep him calm?” Zolf’s reply is gruff, his hand stroking through Wilde’s hair as the man presses insistently against him. “It’s okay, Oscar, shh.”

“We need to head back,” Barnes says quietly and Zolf nods.

“I’ll take care of Oscar, you scout on ahead.” He ignores the slight smirk from Barnes at the use of Wilde’s first name as he heads off. Unsurprisingly, the bard is resistant at the idea of moving, having basically engulfed Zolf’s whole body in an octopus-like hug. Shifting, even just a little, makes him sniffle and whine.

“C’mon Wilde,” Zolf grunts, trying to extract himself. And, as soon as he does try, Wilde bursts into tears. He sobs and sniffles, clutching desperately at Zolf, still making those unhappy panicked sounds.

Okay, so that’s not going to work.

“Alright, alright,” he soothes awkwardly, stroking Wilde’s hair. “But we need to move. You can hold my hand, Oscar, but we have to go.” It takes some manhandling and a lot of wordless complaints from the bard, but they finally manage to get upright and moving. Wilde is clinging to Zolf’s hand, occasionally making quiet sounds in the back of his throat, tears still in his eyes.

It takes Zolf a little while to realise he is trying to sing, to comfort himself.

So, he takes up the charge. The song he sings is an old sea shanty, that he learnt on his very first navy vessel, oddly calming for the boisterous group he remembers. Zolf is out of practice and his singing voice is nowhere near as good as the bard’s, but it does seem to help. Wilde stops crying and begins to hum along, his fingers gripped tightly around Zolf’s.

The journey home is difficult, complicated because Wilde won’t get back on his horse, won’t let go of Zolf’s hand for a second, won’t stop humming. But they make it. Later than they would have hoped, but they make it back.

“I’ll keep an eye on him over night,” Barnes offers and Zolf goes to agree but the moment he starts to move away from Oscar, he begins to cry again.

“Think I might be stuck with him. S’alright, Barnes, get some rest.” The other man nods and leaves Zolf to bundle Wilde into his own bed. The bard curls his whole body around Zolf, pressing his face into the cleric’s hair. It’s not the most comfortable arrangement, but it works. The bed is too small really for the both of them, but Zolf would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the contact through the night.

Later, after they’ve rested and Zolf feels that he can contact whatever is helping him without burning up, after Oscar is restored to normal, Zolf hears him singing that same sea shanty in the kitchen.

It sounds almost ethereal in Wilde’s voice.

* * *

  1. **_Nightmares_**



Zolf is woken by the screams.

The inn is small and sound travels well so a 4am wake-up call to panicked screams is almost immediate. He fumbles to attach his prosthetics, grabbing for his glaive immediately. They’ve never been attacked here before but that doesn’t mean anything. Unsteady, but upright, Zolf runs out of the room, following the screams to Wilde’s door and throwing it open without a second thought, his glaive lighting up with holy fire.

There’s no one there.

There’s just Wilde, tossing and turning like a man possessed, crying out. And Zolf understand immediately.

He drops his glaive, the holy fire winking out, and strides across the room.

“Wilde, Wilde! Oscar!” He gives the man a shake and he bolts upright, the scream dying in his throat.

“Zolf?” he asks and his voice is more tremor than it is word.

“You’re alright, we’re in Japan, in the inn. I’m here. Carter and Barnes are here. We’re safe.” Wilde takes a few deep breaths, hunched over as he does so.

“Sorry for waking you,” he says after a moments silence. “I, uh, hang over from, well… before. Damascus.” He is still shaking and Zolf pauses, sitting down on the bed. He knows about Damascus. Wilde told him, haltingly, a couple of months after they reconvened and honestly, it is isn’t surprising that those nightmares still haunt him even if they are no longer magically influenced.

“S’fine. You alright?” he asks quietly. Oscar looks down at his shaking hands and laugh, in slight disbelief.

“No,” he says. It’s not angry or frustrated. It’s just sorrowful. “I’m not.” A single tear drips off the tip of his nose and Zolf reaches out, careful and unsure, but Wilde leans into his touch.

“Do you want me to stay?” the cleric asks, rubbing circles into Oscar’s shoulders.

“Would you?”

“I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t mean it.” There is a moment of silence and then the bard nods. Zolf readjusts himself into a more comfortable position as Wilde turns, so he is sat beside him on the bed.

“Don’t tell Carter and Barnes,” he croaks out after another long silence. Zolf snorts.

“It never occurred to me. Besides, you shouldn’t be ashamed, we all have nightmares.”

“Not ones that make you scream loud enough to wake the whole inn.” He sounds bitter, angry with himself and Zolf scowls.

“Doesn’t matter. They wouldn’t dare say anything. You’ve been through enough, Oscar. Cut yourself some damn slack.” They are both quiet after that, Wilde leaning ever so slightly on Zolf.

“I… thank you. I’m glad you’re here, Mister Smith.” That tone is teasing, but it falls slightly flat as there are still wet streaks on Wilde’s face.

“I’m glad I’m here too,” Zolf grunts, turning to gently place his hand on Oscar’s jawline. The bard leans into his hand, a slight smile on his face. It is so soft, far from the rakish smile which Wilde had previously worn. Zolf brushes the tears away with the pad of his thumb and leans up, pressing a soft kiss to Wilde’s scar. The bard’s eyes go wide and he murmurs,

“Do that again?” So, Zolf leans forward to kiss the mark, but Wilde shifts in the last second and their lips meet.

Zolf smiles, wry and amused, but he doesn’t pull away, kissing back. It is brief, chaste until Zolf pulls back and looks up at the bard. Wilde is grinning, sly and playful, but there are still tear-tracks down his face.

“Why, didn’t know you had it in you, Mister Smith. You’re quite the kisser,” Oscar says but Zolf shakes his head.

“Enough, Oscar. You’re exhausted and emotionally drained. We’ll talk about this in the morning, but I am not going to let you use this to try and avoid going back to sleep.” The bard blinks and there is a light flush on his cheeks.

“I… You’re right. Thank you, Zolf.” He is oddly meek, though he hasn’t moved away from the cleric. “Will you stay?”

“Will it help you sleep?” That gets him a small nod in reply. “Sure.”

They lie back down and Zolf laces their fingers together, silent, but not alone. And it helps both of them sleep.

* * *

**_+1. Zolf_ **

Three days.

Hamid and Azu have been in quarantine three days before Zolf has to take a break. Some one else is sent in, one of the members of staff in the inn to watch over them and Zolf stands out in front of the building, just letting the rain pour over him.

“Zolf?” The call is from the porch and Zolf does not turn right away. When he does, he sees Wilde, stood with his arms folded, frowning a little.

“Sorry,” he grunts. “Needed a break.”

“I’m not here to berate you about that. Are you okay?” Zolf considered that for a long moment.

It’s gotta be them, right?” he says weakly. “Not sure I could take losing Hamid a second time.” Oscar sighs and steps out into the rain, letting it soak through his clothes without question. Zolf is reminded of a time, long ago, where he had cast Create Water over the bard’s head repeatedly as he had replied with Prestidigitation to look perfect.

That argument had been so trivial.

So much back then appears to be trivial now.

“You know the protocols and you know why they’re there,” Oscar replies, folding his arms.

“It’s not that, I just… _Gods_ I hope its them after all this.” Zolf trembles a little, trying to choke back a sob. He has already mourned them, hated the loss of Sasha and Hamid. And now, to have Hamid returned to them, even without Sasha, it feels like someone is trying to wrench his heart in two. Oscar places a hand on his shoulder and that’s all it takes.

Zolf breaks, sobbing as Wilde gathers him into his arms, letting the dwarf press his face into his chest.

“I know, I know…” the bard murmurs, pressing his head against Zolf’s. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

“I, I can’t, I can’t lose them again, Oscar,” he whispers between bitten off sobs. Wilde presses a kiss to the crown of Zolf’s head, clearly biting his tongue. It will do Zolf no good for him to promise that it is them and they both know it. Because if they are wrong, if Hamid and Azu are Infected, then it will just hurt more.

So, they stand there, the pouring rain masking Zolf’s tears. They stand their and mourn those they have lost.

“We can have hope,” Wilde says, eventually. “It’s all we’ve really got left.”

“It’s all I’m running on,” Zolf replies, sniffling quietly. “All I’ve got.” His face is pressed into the base of Oscar’s ribcage and he can hear the thrum of his heart.

“You’ll have me, as long as you want me.” With his ear pressed against his chest, Wilde’s voice is a rumble. Zolf smiles, just a little at that.

“I know.” They’re both quiet for another moment, before…

“Alright, but can we go inside to cry? It’s very cold when all your clothes are wet,” Wilde whines a little and Zolf grins.

“Yeah, sure. Wouldn’t want to damage your weak constitution.” Oscar makes an annoyed sound, stepping back and grabbing Zolf’s hand.

“Well, I’m sorry Mister-I-am-going-to-go-cry-in-the-rain-like-I’m-in-some-dramatic-romance-novel! Not all of us can be so sturdy to the elements.” Zolf just gives a smile as they head back inside.

Later, they’ll both wake a different points in the night, afraid. Oscar will cry and Zolf will hold him. Zolf will curse and yell and Oscar will soothe him. Then, tomorrow, they will go back down to the cells and continue to hope that their friends have actually returned to them. That, beyond all the odds, things will start to get better as long as they stay together.

**Author's Note:**

> Come and bother me on [tumblr](https://historia-gloria.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/HistoriaGloria)! I am always here for a chat.


End file.
